


East of the Sea

by Sholio



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poison, venom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have a gun here!" She pointed it at his face to emphasize the point. / "And I have a dying friend. Mine wins."</p>
            </blockquote>





	East of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Imbecamiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imbecamiel/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [East of the Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/320620) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



> Written for [Imbecamiel](http://imbecamiel.livejournal.com/) for the Collarcorner 2011 fic exchange, also drawing some plot inspiration from [this prompt](http://collarcorner.livejournal.com/12783.html?thread=290543#t290543) by Nefhiriel.

Peter pulled the Mercedes to the curb, not without a certain amount of pleasure. The vehicle, a donation from the FBI's confiscated vehicle pool, handled like a dream. _You're on the job; play later,_ he reminded himself.

"I see you having fun up there," Neal said lazily from the backseat.

Peter attempted to squash his smile. "Pipe down back there."

"Excuse me, have you forgotten who pays your salary, Jeeves? So hard to get good help these days," Neal said to Diana, who was seated primly beside him in a tailored dark suit befitting a supposed smuggler's bodyguard.

"Might be a good idea not to burn through all my goodwill in the first five minutes, Neal," Peter said. "You still have to work with me afterwards."

"The driver's got a point, boss," Diana said to Neal, and when Peter, startled, glanced over his shoulder, Diana smiled innocently. "I'm getting into character. Can't slip up in front of Moreno's people."

"Authenticity is key," Neal agreed, nodding.

Peter decided to ignore them and took a moment to look around, confirming that the FBI utilities van was set up at the end of the street, along with a half-dozen agents aimlessly moving traffic cones and removing, then replacing manhole covers. This was a residential street, so it had been difficult to get other agents into play, though he did glimpse Agent Sato down the street, walking a dog.

He glanced into the backseat to see both Neal and Diana craning their necks to get a look at the stylish facade of the expensive townhouse looming over them.

"Who says crime doesn't pay?" Neal remarked.

"Hey, I _never_ said it didn't pay. It pays just fine for a short while." Peter smiled. "And then I catch you." He let that sink in for a minute -- Diana was fighting down a grin, while Neal looked like he was pondering a suitably snarky comeback -- and then cleared his throat, switching to business. "Everybody ready? They'll probably sweep us for bugs, so transmitters off 'til we're inside."

"Some of us _have_ done this before," Neal said, but Peter noticed both of them surreptitiously checking their radio transmitters. Diana's, like Peter's, was concealed in her watch. Neal had insisted that the watch was unsuitable for his persona -- _"Nigel wouldn't be caught dead wearing something like that"_ \-- and the lab had scrambled to come up with a tie clip that served the same purpose.

Peter held the car door for both of them. "Why, thank you, Jeeves," Neal said with a bright smile.

"Don't let it go to your head," Peter murmured, tugging down his jacket in a way that ostentatiously made it clear he had a gun under it. He followed the two of them up to the front door. It opened before Diana could raise her hand to knock, and the man who blocked their path was the size of a linebacker, with another who might have been his twin behind him.

"Nigel Halstead," Neal said. "I have a one-o'clock with your boss. He's expecting me."

Peter and Diana were frisked and relieved of their weapons. They'd had a brief but heated discussion about this back at the office -- there was no chance Moreno would allow them to run around armed inside his house, but in the end Peter had decided that it would be too suspicious to go unarmed. In any case, no one batted an eye. "You can get these when you leave," Muscle #1 said, and Muscle #2 escorted them inside.

The place was just as impressive inside as out: huge rooms with spacious ceilings, tastefully decorated. Moreno favored a stark black-and-white color scheme and a "less is more" approach when it came to embellishments; the handful of paintings, sculptures and other artworks in evidence were carefully chosen and very expensive-looking. And probably, Peter guessed, all of them had been illegally imported. He noticed "Nigel" eyeing a grouping of small jade carvings on a glass table, and made a mental note that it might be a good idea to frisk _Neal_ once they were back in the car.

Records pulled by the FBI showed that Moreno had had the entire place custom-designed inside and out. It wasn't just for looks, either. Peter had noticed from the way the front door swung that it was a whole lot heavier than a normal exterior door, and there was a second door recessed into the wall behind the first one, ready to slide across at -- he guessed -- the touch of a button. There were surveillance cameras everywhere. Peter was beginning to rethink his strategy, which up to this point had been simply saying the code words and having the FBI rush in as soon as they had enough to arrest Moreno. But this place was built to hold off a siege. Possibly a lighter touch was called for.

They were met halfway up a wide flight of polished-marble stairs by a woman who shared the same blocky build and general air of competence as the other two, though she was a trifle less square than her male counterparts. A lot of men like Moreno, if they hired women at all, tended to choose them to be ornamental more than competent, but this woman was in her forties with a face and figure like a slab of granite, which made Peter suspect that she was probably very competent indeed. She was also packing an unconcealed weapon on her hip, which made Peter positively _itch_ to ask if she had a permit for it.

She gave them all a quick once-over, but her eyes lingered on Peter, a searching sort of look. _Damn, does she know me from somewhere?_ He didn't recognize _her,_ but even in a city of eight million people, it wasn't impossible to run into someone on an undercover assignment who knew him from somewhere else. Now all he could do was hope that either it was a case of mistaken identity, or, at the very least, that he hadn't met her in an FBI context ...

"I'll take them from here," she told Muscle #2, and turned to lead them up the stairs. "I'm Maris, Mr. Moreno's personal assistant," she said over her shoulder to Neal. "He's in the aquarium room."

"I'd actually be quite interested to see his collections," Neal said.

"I'm sure he'll be happy to show them to you." She swiped a keycard and the door at the top of the stairs slid open for them. The air was different inside -- warm and humid, with a strong sea-tang. _The floor must be massively reinforced to support all this weight,_ Peter mused as his eyes roved over the rows of large aquarium tanks. Moreno probably had authentic-looking, if fake, permits for every animal in here, but Peter was more interested in the structure surrounding the tanks than in their contents. _If we can't prove anything else, I wonder if we could nail him on building-code violations ..._

"Mr. Moreno?" Maris called. "Your one o'clock is here."

"Thank you, Maris." Francis Moreno appeared from behind one of the tanks, stripping off a pair of plastic gloves. He was about Peter's age, his prematurely silver hair swept back in a meticulously gelled wave and his suit impeccably tailored. This could be Neal, Peter thought, fifteen years older and with more serious crimes than forgery under his (Italian leather) belt. Crimes like, say, smuggling stolen artwork and rare, endangered animals through Customs, and, when the whole thing started to unravel, killing two Customs agents to cover it up. Allegedly, of course.

"Mr. Halstead," Moreno said, and they shook hands. Peter noticed out of the corner of his eye Diana and Maris sizing each other up and then both settling into loose, alert poses.

"Quite an impressive setup." Neal looked around. "I can see you've put a lot of work into this."

"Nothing is worth doing unless it's worth doing well." Moreno ran his hand across the glass surface of the nearest tank. Small, colorful fish skittered away. "Are you familiar with aquatic wildlife, Mr. Halstead?"

"It's not my area of expertise," Neal said carefully. "However, I know the basics and I'm _quite_ open to learn." _If the price is right,_ ran the subtext. "I understand that you're in the market for a new ... facilitator; some sort of problem with your previous supply chain."

Moreno smiled. "Ah, straight to business. A man after my own heart. Maris, have coffee sent up," he said, and turned to lead them deeper into the maze of fishtanks. In addition to the tanks, there were also tables with enough equipment to supply a dozen pet stores: water filters, dipping nets in a dozen sizes, jars of antibiotics, various sorts of fish food.

Peter couldn't tell if Neal was genuinely interested, but he put on a credulous show of it, asking intelligent questions and admiring the fish in the tanks he passed.

"Look, but don't touch," Moreno said as Neal leaned over one of the tanks to peer into it, and Neal pulled back quickly. "Some of these beauties are quite poisonous." Moreno paused by a long tank, this one occupied by jellyfish. Peter shifted his weight slightly to look at the drifting, different-sized glassine bells with their trailing tentacles. "There are six different species of jellyfish in this tank," Moreno said, "some of which would merely cause excruciating pain, while others would kill you in minutes."

Peter wondered if the threatening subtext was merely his own paranoia, but from the tightness of Neal's smile, he didn't think he was the only one who read it that way. "Mmmm, box jellies and Irukandji, I'm guessing?" Neal said. "I presume you have the antivenom for the former somewhere around here? There is none for Irukandji poisoning, of course ..."

Moreno raised an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't an expert on aquatic wildlife, Mr. Halstead."

"Let's just say that I once encountered a situation for which I needed to educate myself on venomous water creatures and the proper response for dealing with them."

 _Oh ... really?_ Peter thought, giving Neal a careful look, which Neal just as carefully avoided. While there was no hard evidence whatsoever that Neal had ever been south of the equator, Peter had long had private suspicions about the theft of a collection of very rare miniatures from a cruise ship off the coast of Australia. The thief had apparently snorkeled in from a dinghy piloted by an accomplice, bringing evening clothes in a waterproof case, had mingled with the guests for a while and then gone back the same way, with the miniatures in the case instead of the clothing.

"To answer your question, there is antivenom on the premises," Moreno said. "Its location is known to myself and Maris ... A form of insurance, I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Neal said blandly.

Peter glanced at Maris, who returned his look without expression. He was suddenly, acutely aware of how isolated from backup they were. Oh, sure, Jones and the crew in the van were listening in, but if they did use the distress word -- then what? Jones and company would have to fight their way into a fortress to get to them. He glanced over his shoulder as the door whispered open, revealing Muscle #2 carrying an incongruous silver tray with coffee cups on it. Maris went quietly to take it from him, and the door closed at a touch of a button. Peter noticed a key card reader on the inside as well, indicating that there was no way in or out -- well, no easy way, anyway -- without one of those cards. And that door looked almost as sturdy as the one downstairs.

Definitely a long way from help if they needed it. He shared a glance with Diana and saw his own concern reflected in her eyes.

There turned out to be a cozy little parlor at the back of the aquarium room, with plush chairs grouped around an expensive-looking dark wood table. One could sit and sip cognac and watch the fishtanks. Or, as the case may be, Peter thought, conduct nefarious underworld business instead. Moreno ushered Neal to a chair, and Maris put the tray on the table between them before taking up position behind her boss. Peter and Diana echoed her stance, flanking Neal as proper bodyguards ought to.

Neal hesitated very slightly before picking up his cup of coffee. Moreno wasn't known for poisoning his business partners. Of course, there was a first time for everything ...

And Maris kept giving Peter searching looks. _She does know me from somewhere,_ he thought, his jaw clenched. _Let's just hope that Moreno gives us something we can use before she figures it out._

Fortunately Neal could also see Maris's face -- he was seated across from her, after all. Peter had no way to pass a message ( _Hurry up, I think she might be onto us_ ) but he trusted his partner to be quick on the uptake.

But there wasn't a whole lot that either of them could do if Moreno simply refused to outright incriminate himself, and so far, the conversation remained frustratingly vague. And it wasn't as if Neal could be too blatantly leading, as much as Peter could fantasize about it: _"So, Mr. Moreno, where DID you hide the bodies of those customs agents, anyway?"_

So they danced politely around the details, while Peter could feel himself getting wound tighter and tighter. Neal, Peter noticed, was merely touching his lips to his coffee, not sipping it. Probably a good idea.

 _We're not getting anything useful out of him today, Neal. Wrap it up. You've established a potential business relationship, and we can afford to do this slowly. Maybe next time we can meet him somewhere a little more conducive to our needs._

As if responding to Peter's thoughts, Neal set his cup down. "Well, I think it's clear that we both need a little time to consider the benefits of an alliance. Next week, perhaps? I can do a little research in the meantime."

Maris jerked sharply. If Peter hadn't been watching her closely, he might not have noticed, because she stifled the movement almost as soon as she made it, but he'd seen the snap of recognition in her dark eyes. _She figured it out,_ he thought, going tense, because she was bending down urgently towards Moreno. Peter reached automatically for his side, where his gun wasn't.

Neal had seen it too, and acted quickly. His hand flinched and his delicate porcelain cup tipped over, sending a wash of coffee across the richly finished table. Neal cursed and jumped up; so did Moreno, aborting Maris's move to lean over and speak to him.

"Sorry, sorry," Neal murmured. "Clumsy of me. Does anyone have a handkerchief?"

"I'll get something," Diana said quickly, taking advantage of the opportunity to move away from their little group, give her room to maneuver and get the three of them away from each other so they couldn't all be taken down at once.

But the clock was running down very, very fast. There was only so long they could keep Moreno distracted before he noticed Maris's attempts to get his attention. Peter ran through a half-dozen aborted plans, every one of them ending in "... and then we all get shot." He could tell that Maris herself was uncertain what to do; her hot gaze went swiftly from him to her boss and back again. Then she apparently gave up on waiting for orders and reached for her gun.

Neal instantly kicked the table, flipping it and sending the remaining cup of coffee flying at Moreno. Diana dived for Maris, who yelled, "They're FBI, sir!" as she ducked out of the way.

How did she _know?_ Well, it didn't matter now. Moreno was scrambling away from the table and reaching under his suit jacket for _his_ gun. "We've been made, Jones, backup now!" Peter snapped as he flung himself over the table, nearly kicking Neal in the head. He got one good karate-chop at Moreno's wrist, knocking the gun out of his hand. It went skittering underneath the tables holding the fish tanks. Moreno turned and sprinted for the door. Peter made a wild grab for him and missed. A gunshot cracked, deafening in the enclosed room; he actually felt the breeze as it missed his cheek, and then Diana disarmed Maris with a flying kick. The gun sailed across the room and plopped into a tank full of -- were those small _sharks?_

"Diana, get Moreno!" Peter yelled. Diana was closer to the door than either himself or Neal, and Moreno was already swiping his card to unlock the door. If he managed to make it out and alert the household goons, they were toast.

"On it, boss!" She turned and sprinted after him.

Peter swung back towards Maris just in time to glimpse something flying at his face. He started to bring up his hands automatically, but there wasn't time to react -- however, Neal jumped in front of him and batted it aside with his forearm. Momentum carried Neal down to his knees and Peter realized in shock that he'd nearly gotten a faceful of poisonous jellyfish. Maris had found a new weapon: one of the little fish-dipping nets on a long handle.

Neal, on the floor half under one of the tables, flexed his hand, staring at it in shock as if he couldn't believe he'd just done that.

Peter snatched up one of the smaller chairs as an impromptu weapon and jellyfish-shield, bringing it in front of him just in time to deflect another fast-flying clot of jellyfish. Maris glared at him, the dripping dip net clenched in her fist. Peter spared a glance in Neal's direction.

"Neal, you okay?"

"Yes --" Neal began, and then Maris, changing strategies, yanked on the edge of the jellyfish tank and sent it crashing to the floor. A wave of water and jellyfish cascaded over Neal and over Peter's shins and feet -- and Maris's too, sending her scrabbling wildly back into the maze of fishtanks. Peter dropped the chair and leaped backwards, avoiding most of the water bearing its potentially lethal cargo.

Neal screamed.

Peter had a split second to decide which one of them to go after, and he went for Neal. Neal was thrashing, trying to get away, and Peter could see at a glance that several of the jellyfish had gotten their long, trailing tentacles on him, over his clothes for the most part, but also on his hand and -- Peter blanched in horror -- his face.

Neal, gasping, knotted a hand into Peter's shirt and allowed himself to be half-dragged, half-carried out of the mess. Peter, closing rapidly on panic himself, tried to pull off the tentacle that had whipped across Neal's jaw, only to jerk his hand away as it burned him like fire. _Don't touch them, idiot._ Inspiration struck, and he used his keys as a makeshift tool to pry loose the tentacles. The skin underneath was red and welted. Peter's hand felt as if it was on fire where it had come in contact with the stingers.

"We have a medical emergency," he said for the benefit of the team that was -- he hoped -- still listening in from the van. "Jellyfish toxin, unknown type. Neal. Neal?" Neal was rigid and shaking, his breathing rapid -- not panic, but pain and shock. "Neal, stay with me, you're the one who knows what to do. Tell me --"

"Hands up and step away from him!"

Apparently Maris had found her gun. "Oh, shut up!" Peter yelled at her.

Astonished, she stared at him. "I have a gun here!" She pointed it at his face to emphasize the point.

"And I have a dying friend. Mine wins."

"Vinegar --" Neal managed between clenched teeth. "And -- antivenom, if she has it -- not all species have a --" He broke off, his head arching back and his muscles spasming.

"You heard him!" Peter barked at Maris. "Get it!"

The gun shook in her hands, dropping before coming up to point at them both again. "Mr. Moreno --"

"Isn't here, he ran off and left you, remember?" Peter tried to get his own breathing under control; automatically trying to keep pace with Neal's labored gasping, he was starting to hyperventilate. And Diana was out there in a house full of Moreno's heavily armed men -- but he couldn't worry about that right now. One emergency at a time.

"Maris, right now we have no evidence against you. But there are a dozen FBI agents listening to and recording every word we say." Was it just his own paranoia, or was Neal's harsh breathing growing weaker? He forced himself to keep his eyes on Maris, willing her to listen, to believe. "You help me save him, flip on Moreno, and you stand a good chance of staying out of prison. Stand by and do nothing, and you're looking at accessory to murder at the very least. Shoot me, with the FBI listening in, and that's Murder 1. Now where's the damn antivenom?"

For an endless moment, she did nothing but stare at him -- it was probably no more than a few seconds, but Peter lived and died a dozen lifetimes in those seconds ... and then she whirled from him with a soundless snarl and crossed the room in a few quick strides. "I cannot believe that I'm doing this," she muttered, "can't believe --" She yanked open the door of a small upright refrigerator and began fumbling through its contents, jamming the gun back into its holster to free both her hands. Over her shoulder, she snapped, "There's a bottle of vinegar in the top cabinet there. It'll deactivate any stingers left on his skin, or yours."

Peter eased Neal's head down to the floor, and found the bottle where she'd said it was. "Pour it on?"

"Whatever works for you," she said shortly, drawing the contents of a small vial into a syringe. "Was it a big jellyfish or a little one that you pulled off him?"

"What's big or little for a jellyfish?" Peter asked, splashing vinegar over the rash purpling Neal's face, hand and forearm, and his own hand. He couldn't tell if he was experiencing a venom reaction himself, or just panicking on Neal's behalf. _Fast heartbeat, sweating, rapid breathing ... could go either way, really ..._

"Irukandji jellyfish are smaller than your thumbnail," Maris said, kneeling next to him. "The antivenom is only for the big ones, the box jellies, but they're the really dangerous ones. Kill you in minutes."

"Thanks for the optimism." Peter supported Neal's head and shoulders on his thigh. Neal's hair was plastered down with sweat and seawater, his eyes half-open and his jaw clenched. Peter thought he was conscious, but it was hard to tell.

"Hold him still." Maris unceremoniously injected the syringe into Neal's thigh. "Since he's not dead already, I'd guess that he didn't get a lethal dose. What about you? Any symptoms?"

"Feels like I dipped my hand in molten lead."

"If that's all," Maris said, "then you're okay. You'd be having other symptoms by now." She looked down at Neal and frowned. "Ice might help with the pain. I'll get some."

Peter checked Neal's vitals -- Neal's pulse was still rapid and weak, but Peter thought his breathing already seemed to be stabilizing. Now that the immediate medical crisis was past, Peter wondered how long his little truce with Maris would last. He considered wrestling the gun away from her, but she was already out of reach. And he was still shaky and feeling none too great himself. "Hope things are going well out there, guys," he muttered in the direction of his watch. "Feel free to rescue us anytime, huh?"

He hauled Neal farther from the mess of glass, seawater and dying jellyfish on the floor, and then took the time to check their wet clothing for any of those tiny little jellyfish with the unpronounceable name that might be hiding in awkward places. Neal had gone from being rigid, his whole body locked up, to limp, which Peter hoped was an improvement. He'd also started shivering, so Peter shrugged out of his jacket and was wrapping it around Neal when Maris came back with a bag of ice and some towels.

Peter eyeballed the distance between himself and her gun. "Don't think about it," she said, edging out of reach to the other side of Neal. He'd have to dump Neal out of his lap to jump her anyway. "You meant what you said about making a deal?"

"I meant it," Peter said. "You kept up your end, and --" He took a deep breath. "I owe you." _More than I can repay, actually._ "It would be a help, and look better with the DA's office, if you'd be willing to testify against Moreno." She looked dubious. "But regardless, I'll do what I can to keep you out of prison."

"For what that's worth," Maris said suspiciously.

Neal stirred in his lap. "You can trust him," he said hoarsely, and cracked an eye open to squint up at both of them. "He's pretty reliable. Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Just us and everyone in the van," Peter said. Now that Neal's immediate survival was no longer a pressing issue, not knowing what was happening with Diana _or_ the van was driving him to distraction. Push Maris too hard, though, and they could find themselves right back on the business end of a gun barrel.

Maris handed him a makeshift cold pack and he laid it against the side of Neal's face. Neal hissed in pain. "How do you feel?" Peter asked.

Neal's glower, weak though it was, made it clear how he felt about _that_ question.

Maris sat back on her heels and frowned at them. "You two are ... nothing like what I was expecting from the FBI."

"That's good to hear," Neal murmured. "The day I'm easily mistaken for FBI, I'm handing in my hat."

The door to the aquarium room hissed open. Peter tensed, but relief washed over him at Diana's familiar silhouette. Jones was behind her. "Boss?" Diana called, and then she and Jones both saw Maris. As they brought their guns to bear, Maris scrambled to her feet and drew her weapon.

"Whoa!" Peter held up a hand, all too aware that it was hard to project calm authority while kneeling on the floor, soaking wet, with his CI's head in his lap. "Nobody do anything stupid here, okay? Maris, they'll have everything that happened in here on tape, and it looks really good for you right now. If you cooperate, these people are on your side. Don't make things worse for yourself."

Neal rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes. "Voice of experience here," he rasped. "I'd do what he says."

Maris took a deep breath and then laid down her weapon. Diana pulled out her handcuffs, and Maris looked at Peter. "Cooperate," he said, and Maris pressed her lips together and held out her hands obediently for cuffing.

"Hey, Maris," Peter said, and she looked around at him. "How _did_ you know we were FBI, anyway?"

A smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "I saw you on TV when that crooked senator was arrested a few months ago."

Great. He'd known the media circus surrounding Jennings' takedown would come back to bite them eventually.

"C'mon." Diana led Maris out, not without a few concerned glances over her shoulder at Peter and Neal. Peter gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and then turned his attention to Jones.

"Moreno?"

"Says he wants his lawyer, but we've got him dead to rights." Jones dropped to one knee next to Peter and Neal. "No one was hurt on our side _or_ theirs." He raised his eyebrows at the two of them. "Well, except for --"

"Yes, I know," Peter said wearily, but a few more spools of tension unwound from his shoulders. "How about those paramedics?"

"On their way," Jones said.

"Oh, thank God," Neal mumbled. "Not to criticize the first aid, but -- real painkillers sound _great."_ He drew a hitching breath. Peter reflected that if the searing pain in his own hand was anything to go by, Neal must still be teetering right on the edge of his self-control.

And the last thing Neal needed was a lot of people around, pushing him to the limits of it. Peter needed to get a more detailed status report, but it could wait a few more minutes. "Jones, do me a favor and go make sure things are under control with Moreno, all right? I don't want to give him a single excuse to get this thrown out on a technicality, and I know he'll try. And get those paramedics up here as soon as they show up."

"Will do." Jones' quick glance at Neal gave Peter an idea that he knew what Peter was up to, and approved. _I do have good people,_ Peter thought. Jones gave Peter's shoulder a quick pat and then headed swiftly for the door.

Peter deactivated both their transmitters; they'd earned a bit of privacy after all of that. His legs were starting to cramp, and he adjusted position, trying to make things a little more comfortable for both himself _and_ Neal. "More ice?" he asked, and Neal nodded slightly, so he scooped up a handful of melting ice from the bag.

"How bad is it?" Neal asked, stirring weakly and trying without success to get a look at his own face. "Does it look like it's going to scar?"

 _He must be feeling better,_ Peter thought, not quite managing to suppress a grin. "Don't worry, Casanova, women like scars." Neal's eyes opened wide, and Peter took pity on him. "No, I doubt it'll scar. It's not that bad, and it's mostly hidden by your hair anyway."

He, on the other hand, would have gotten a face full of tentacles if Neal hadn't deflected Maris's first attack. With the sharp pain in his fingers a constant reminder, he didn't even want to imagine what a nightmare that would have been. Even if he'd survived, blindness and severe facial scarring were a very real possibility ... Words seemed inadequate, but he tried anyway. "Thanks, by the way."

Neal waggled the fingers of his unstung hand in a dismissive little wave. "'salright. Next time, you get to throw yourself on the jellyfish for my sake."

Peter laughed. "Only you," he said, "could end up getting stung by a poisonous tropical jellyfish in the middle of New York City."

"I make life interesting," Neal murmured, smiling.

 _And more than that,_ Peter thought, raising a hand to touch his smooth, unmarked skin. _More than that._

 

***

Peter mounted the stairs at June's. Three days after the poisoning, he was still somewhat short of breath and easily tired -- not enough to stop him from going back to work, but noticeable. Neal was still most emphatically on ... well, bed rest was too much to hope for, but medical leave, at the very least.

He tapped at Neal's door.

"C'mon in, Peter."

"How'd you know it was me?" Peter asked, cracking the door open.

"Mozzie knocks in iambic pentameter. Besides, he just left."

Neal looked awfully cheerful for someone recovering from a near-fatal poisoning. He was still pale, though, and he was wearing his silk pajamas in the middle of the afternoon, which for Neal was the equivalent of anyone else going out to dinner in their bathrobe. He was seated at his easel -- another sign that things were still a bit off, since Peter invariably found him standing when he painted; Neal seemed to go into manic mode when he was working on a painting, and Peter hadn't realized he could even do it sitting down.

"El sent over some soup." Peter held up the covered dish.

Neal laughed. "Put it in the 'fridge -- with the rest of them. June's been plying me with every sort of delicacy that her cook can produce. You people are going to make me gain ten pounds by the time the FBI lets me come back to work. Speaking of which ..." He looked beseechingly at Peter.

Peter looked pointedly at Neal's right hand and forearm, still swathed in bandages; Neal was painting with his left, though almost as adeptly as normal. "Are you insane? No."

"Come on, Peter, I'm bored out of my skull."

"You're supposed to be bored. You're convalescing. It's good for you." After relieving himself of his burden, Peter glanced over Neal's shoulder at the canvas and laughed out loud.

"Art critic," Neal said.

"That's not what I was laughing at." Peter studied the deep blue background with delicate, translucent bells floating in it. His fingers -- mostly recovered, but not quite -- twinged in memory. "I'd think that would be the last thing you'd want to spend all day staring at."

"Jellyfish are aesthetically beautiful," Neal retorted. "Anything that beautiful has to have a potent sting. Even roses have thorns, after all."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm not hanging it on the wall of my bedroom anytime soon."

"I wasn't offering." Neal dipped his brush into a jar of water beside his easel. "Any word on Maris?"

"The DA's office is willing to offer her immunity in return for testifying against Moreno, who looks like he's going away for a long time. Nothing like trying to kill an undercover FBI agent to give us probable cause for a search, and we found plenty."

"Another win for team Caffrey-Burke," Neal said brightly, pushing himself up from the chair. His legs wobbled; his little grab for the edge of the table was subtle, but not quite subtle enough.

Peter had to force himself not to catch Neal by the elbow; the urge was there, but he knew Neal wouldn't appreciate it. Instead he leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "Don't you mean team Burke-Caffrey?"

"I don't think the _bodyguard_ should get top billing," Neal said, grinning smugly.

"Oh, come _on,_ that was our cover. Don't let it go to your head. Oh, wait," Peter said, with a theatrical wince. "It's you. Too late."

"I think I need to get back to work as soon as possible, to keep your ego in check."

" _My_ ego?" Peter snorted. "Well, speaking of work, I'd better get back to it. If you behave yourself, I'll have Diana bring over some of the files for this new art theft case we've been working on."

Neal looked hopeful. "You have an art theft case? And you kept it from me?"

"Settle down, it's nothing exciting, just one of our cold cases from a few years ago that we got a tip on. And no," Peter said, "it's not one of yours. _You_ were in prison at the time. Anyway, as long as you don't overextend yourself, it couldn't hurt to get your opinion on it." And it would keep him out of trouble. A bored Neal was a Neal in search of things to do, and that was neither good for the city's crime rate, nor, given Neal's physical condition at the moment, for Neal himself.

Peter glanced at the painting on the easel one last time as he turned to leave. His eye had been drawn to the jellyfish before, but this time he noticed that the surface of the waves was also visible, and, at the far right, a teeny tiny little cruise ship, off in the distance. And those were very lifelike jellyfish, as if taken from observation in their natural habitat ...

"You know," Peter said, "you never did mention how you learned all of that about jellyfish stings."

Neal, projecting bland innocence, didn't so much as glance at the painting. "I never go undercover without being prepared, Peter."

"Uh-huh. Of course." Peter nodded to the painting. "You know, I take back what I said about not wanting that. It couldn't hurt to have a Caffrey original, and I _do_ have a birthday coming up ..."

"Didn't you have work to get back to?"

Peter grinned, and slipped out the door before he pressed it too far, and Neal decided to throw something at him. But one of these days, he planned to show up with a bottle of wine, sans badge. Neal had well and truly earned his immunity for that particular heist. And besides ... a cruise ship, a snorkel, and, Peter could only assume, Mozzie in a dinghy? He _had_ to hear this story.


End file.
